The Secret Life of Modern Teenage Walter Mitty


BLANK. LOL. Blank. Waiting. Need new kicks. Boobs. LOL.

"Walter! Hello!"

The teenager looked up.

"Come in, Walter. Hello!"


"Have a seat. Hey, champ, you daydreaming out there?"

The teenager took a seat in the counselor's office and said nothing.

"Put your smart phone on the desk there, will you?"


"So, how was school today?"

"It went fast, I guess. I got a lot of work done."

"Learn anything new?"

"I guess, yeah. Something about paragrapholas."

The counselor saw that Mitty looked at his discarded smart phone on the desk the way Romeo might leer forlornly at Juliet. The counselor picked it up and handed it back to the boy. "Actually, why don't you put that in your backpack?"


"So I called you in so we could talk about your future. I was wondering if you'd applied for any colleges yet?"

The teenager's eyes focused on the brown-green floor tiles.

Blankness. Background hum. Pizza. Feels like a pimple. LOL.



"Yes. I was asking you what you wanted to study."


"Any particular reason."


"Is it for the money you think you'll make?"


"Is anyone in your family an accountant?"

"No. Wait. I think my father is."

"Walter, tell me: Do you ever daydream about things you want to do, places you want to see, adventures you want to have?

"No. I play video games though. They're mad wild."

"Same thing, I guess. But, you do realize that you're failing in all your classes, including math. You probably won't graduate this year."

"That's all right. I’m going to do my best and pull it out for next semester."

The counselor sighed and reached for his mug of cold coffee. "Sounds great, Walter. You do that."

* * *

After Mitty left, the counselor looked at the long line of students waiting outside his office/copy room. They moved in force, swinging their axes toward him, showering him with arrows. But he was quicker than they, easily beheading all the Orcs in the front line and taking the time out to defecate into their necks.

"Mr. Thurber?"


"Were you . . . were you just daydreaming?"

"No, no, not at all."

"They told me I was supposed to see you," the teenager said, not looking up from his smart phone. The phone beeped.

The warning beeps in his starship reached an insane pitch. The battle for quadritanium had moved into space, where High Counselor Plasma Thurbassa used his laser scimitar to blast the giant alien pimple lords into greasy gravity-defying blobs of orange and pink goo. 


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